


Slipping

by ghoullly



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Blood, Character Study, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Weapons, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 05:21:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13804287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghoullly/pseuds/ghoullly
Summary: Some nights were worse than others.





	Slipping

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING!!  
> This drabble is based off of a piece of fanart I saw that really made me think. I always wondered why the fandom never really explored the sad side of Murdoc as much as there's possibility for; he's a pretty sad guy and even tho he sucks sometimes I really wanna give him a hug :(  
> That being said, even though it's a drabble, the content in here is pretty heavy. If you are easily triggered by self-harm or suicidal ideation, I definitely wouldn't read this!! I'll write a happy drabble soon to make up for it :')  
> This was a warm up for the next chapter of the Gunpowder Princess.   
> Here's the link to the art that inspired this piece (TRIGGER WARNING HERE TOO): http://ludashiki.tumblr.com/post/168548187177/angsty-murdoc-discord-request-please

The storm raged on outside and hail hammered against the glass door of the balcony.

The lights were off, and even though the curtains were pulled open, the gloomy gray sky outside kept the bedroom engulfed in near darkness.

He was shoved in the far corner next to the bed, knees pulled tightly to his chest and a bottle of antidepressants clutched in the white knuckles of his left hand. His chest heaved as he swallowed deep gulps of air, hyperventilation gripping his throat and blocking his air supply. Warm tears slid down his cheeks and his lower lip quivered as he focused intensely on the weapon sitting on the ground just a few feet away from him.

Murdoc’s fingers twitched and he grimaced, digging his pointed nails into his palm so hard he broke the skin there.

How nice it would feel to grip the cold metal...

His breath hitched and he curled in tighter on himself, clenching his teeth and flexing his fingers. No, no, no. He couldn’t. No, no.

...But it would be quick. Virtually painless.

The perfect exit.

“No, stop,” he whispered harshly, dropping the pill bottle and gripping the sides of his head roughly, entangling his fingers in his hair to be able to feel the pull. “Stop, stop, none of that now...”

He wished he never bought the gun. He needed it for defense against the Boogeyman and the Black Cloud, but he didn’t even use it yet. The only thing he’d done with it is fish it out from under his pillow when he got particularly bad, set it on the floor, and contemplate for hours before ultimately putting it back where he found it. This was nothing new.

This time around, though, it seemed terrifyingly easy. Just pick it up, switch the safety off, and pop it in his mouth or press it against his temple and  _ squeeze.  _ Quick. Done and over with.

Nausea overcame him and he doubled over, feeling it tug on his tongue although nothing ever came up. It never did.

He’d thought about it ever since he was fifteen. He’d found ways to hurt himself much earlier than that. His heart ached when he thought about the nine-year-old boy who’d come home from long nights of public humiliation, lock himself in the bathroom--still in his Pinocchio outfit--and carve his thighs and wrists up with his father’s razor because he had no other way to get relieve himself of the pain.

_ Dunno why that gets to you,  _ hissed the voice in the back of his mind,  _ It’s not like you ever stopped. _

That was true. He had found a variety of ways to hurt himself over the years--scratching himself until he bled and called it an accident, injecting himself with so many drugs that it became hard to function without them, holding his lighter against his skin until he could smell it burning--but his razor was usually what he went back to. He never really stopped because the pain never did; he’d hurt himself when everybody else was asleep so no one would worry. Noodle helped keep him from pressing blades into his wrists for a while when she first arrived at Kong; she had frequent nightmares and would seek him for comfort. He’d hate for her to see something to fuel them.

Once she grew out of that he picked back up again. He’d resorted to the backs of his thighs instead of the fronts so his cape could cover them. His wrists still suffered but Russel never paid attention and he was careful to hide them around Noodle, so he got away with it.

2D noticed; of course he did. That was his best mate. He’d always offer to listen if Murdoc needed it, even on the days where Murdoc was an absolute cunt towards him. That was Stuart’s weakness--kindness.

He still asked every once and a while but he knew that 2D was scared of him now. Just the sight of Murdoc sent him into panic attacks, and if Murdoc happened to even brush up against his arm he’d attack him as he went into fight or flight mode. He’d been bitten, punched, kicked at; scratched, bruised, harmed to the point of tears.

It hurt a lot worse when somebody else did it.

2D didn’t like him very much anymore.

_ Because you’re garbage,  _ they spat,  _ do everyone a favor and kill yourself. _

Murdoc watched the gun intensely as if it were going to move for a second or two before burying his face in his hands, letting out a shaky moan in agonized torture.

He wanted to so badly. He wished he had the courage.

The blood on his wrists wasn’t even dry yet; he felt the wetness soak through the sleeves of his turtleneck and stain the white, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Maybe he didn’t even have to blow his brains out; there was rope down by the docks. He could jump off of the balcony. He could lay right by the water and let the tide suck him into the sea and swallow him whole, flooding his lungs until he became one with the ocean. It would certainly fit the meaning behind his name. He could guard the water forever.

However, the bullet was the quickest.

He shifted his leg out, his heels quietly thumping on the floor as he scooted himself an inch towards the weapon. He sunk his teeth into his bottom lip as he slid his hand to his knee, wanting to reach out.

_ Grab it. _

_ Finally end it all. _

_ You killed her, so by rights, you should die too. _

_ It’s only fair. _

“I should die,” the bassist breathed, sniffling and moving closer. Thunder boomed outside and the room flickered with a flash of lightning.

Now that he was closer, he felt uneasy again. He insecurely wrapped his arms around his middle, hunching over, feeling the wet begin to spread onto his belly.

_ What the fuck are you waiting for, you pussy? _

_ Go out with a bang, just like you always said you would. _

“I can’t leave him here,” he whispered, though nobody heard him.

“He’d find me, and then he’d do it, too,” he reasoned. 

“I’d rather not leave him by himself,” he decided, pulling himself to his feet with unsteady balance. He shook like a leaf, his knees threatening to give out. The gun seemed much smaller now but it still taunted him.

He went to pick it up to put it back where it came from, but the pit in his stomach turned to a black hole and began eating him from the inside. He felt the urge to hurt himself again because he didn’t like what the pit was making him consider.

Murdoc sat down on the edge of his bed, trying to map what it would feel like if he took the bullet through the roof of his mouth or his temple. He tried to figure out which would hurt worse. 

Choking back a sob of hysteria, he dug inside of his bedside table and withdrew his father’s razor again, rolling his bloody sleeves up and dragging a nail up the slits carved into green skin like the strings of his bass. The pain made him wince, but it was satisfying to know that he was hurting. He deserved it. He shouldn’t be allowed to be happy.

He gave himself a whole new set of slices in between the earlier cuts, breaking open old scars and creating deep wounds that would eventually form new ones. Warm blood spilled over his fingers as he clutched the blade in between his thumb and index, mutilating the flesh even worse than it already was. His belt was on too tight and he was too lazy to unbuckle it; otherwise, he would have taken his pants off and started to carve into his thighs as well.

Murdoc continued until his arm was a mess, letting the razor fall out of his palm onto his riding pants, splattering the fabric with red. He wiped his palm on the side of his leg and pulled his sleeve back down as if he was going to hide it, even though nobody was going to see it.

Satan, he really wanted to end it all. Death sounded really nice.

He swallowed hard, making up his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually missing over 10 pages... I wrote this originally much longer but figured it would be better shorter. (Don't worry--in the longer version he vents to 2D and is alright by the end; I quite literally chopped this out of that version, so the long version picks up right where this leaves off. Our beloved pickle man winds up okay in every version of this that I wrote <3)  
> I figured I could use this as a warm up for GP as well as a study for the darker side of Muddy. Keep an eye out for the next part of GP soon!


End file.
